


Heartspace

by Somekindofcontraption



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fade Tongue, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Spoilers, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:50:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somekindofcontraption/pseuds/Somekindofcontraption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Solas was a younger man, he claimed to bear no love but that which he bore for The People."</p><p>Solas struggles to carry out his plans as he finds his soulmate in the most unlikely of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

When Solas was a younger man he claimed to bear no love but that which he bore for The People. He had still been Fen’Harel then, and the declaration— boldly made within earshot of half the Evanuris and a gaggle of Mythal’s honored guests— was exactly the sort that had charmed onlookers gathering around him at these sorts of events.

“I’m _sure_ it’s your love for _The_ _People,_ Fen’Harel, that keeps the space above your heart empty.”

Andruil had been seated at the end of the high table, her spindly fingers wrapped around a jeweled goblet as she listened in on the Dread Wolf’s tale. There was a shrillness to her voice that cut him through, and many hundreds of years later he could still hear it in his mind.

“I suppose your sympathy for the plight of slaves leaves you busy for little else, but one would think with the sheer _number_ of lovers taken to your bed that one might have stuck by now.” She sipped her wine, peeking coyly over the rim of her cup. “Perhaps you are simply unique, _Dread Wolf._ The only elf in all of Elvhenan without a soul to mate to yours.” 

“Amusing as ever, my darling _sister_. I do so enjoy your jests… But speaking of soulmates, my dear Andruil, how is Ghilin’nain these days? If you’ve heard from her at all, that is.” His laugh was rich and chased the smile from Andruil’s face. Fen’Harel remembered little after that, save for a goblet flung across the room at him just before Andruil stormed out of the party in a flurry of silken skirts.

Such a slight did not go unnoticed by their gracious host. It was no coincidence that this was the last of Mythal’s affairs that Andruil was ever invited to.

Fen’harel had known strings of lovers before then, taking his pleasure where he wanted, indulging in all of the fineries that befitted someone of his title. But that gala had marked an end of sorts, as Fen’harel began to see that while The People— _his_ people— suffered the whims of his "kin", he could not stay silent and let their calls for help go unanswered.

 

Something had to be done.

* * *

 

Soon after came over a thousand years of fighting. 

The Evanuris, whose immense power had once united them to rule over The People, were pitted against each other in bloody warfare. Fen’Harel began stealing slaves right from under his comrade's noses, re-branding them to his service, giving them wages, food, and safety at Tarasyl’an Te’las. Soon, Elgarn’an’s wrath was felt all throughout Elvhenan as slaves who tried to leave his service were tortured and left to rot along the roads of every elven city as a reminder to those who might cross him. Andruil carved bloody trails through villages, killing innocents in tribute to her vanity.  

Only Mythal, who took only willing servants into her care, remained steadfastly against the violence that befell The People during those years. Her murder was the tipping point that pushed Fen’harel to find a means to an end. 

Thus he devised the Veil, the culmination of all of his power and all of his talents.  

With his orb as a foci, Fen’harel created for the Evanuris a limitless cage that changed the world forever. As his creation swallowed them whole, Elgarn’an had cursed him, naming him betrayer. June and Sylaise shuddered in each other’s arms. Falon’din and Dirthamen bore their fate in silence. But Ghilan’nain…  

Ghilan’nain had clutched at Andruil in terror, as if hundreds of years of Andruil’s madness ceased to matter in the face of their imprisonment. In those last moments, a name written by magic above her heart somehow made meaningless everything that Andruil had done to her, all of the torture she had been forced to endure at her lover's hands gone in an instant.

Fen’harel slipped into the long sleep to recover his strength, sure that his sacrifice would allow the People to live and grow as they were always meant to. Never again would they be forced to submit. Even after all his years, he could not foresee the consequences of his actions.

 

When he awoke from the long sleep he found a dream turned to ash… he took back his true name escape the title Dread Wolf, and to remind him that it was his pride that had destroyed his people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This grew out of the prompt "Soulmate AU: Finding out Fen’Harel is your soulmate. For Fen’harel, his soulmate doesn’t come until after uthenera." Many thanks to the indispensable RevolutionJack for all her efforts and prompts!
> 
> Rating will change in later chapters.
> 
> EDIT: Now adjusted to include spoilers for Trespasser - proceed with caution!


	2. The Wrath of Heaven

_“Quickly, before more come through!”_

Ellana found herself floating, easing through unfathomable darkness, surrounded by mist. Voices echoed in her ears, sensations of memories blending together. Her Keeper’s voice, warm hands on her skin, patching her up after a rough hunt.

With a lurch the world around her shifted. Another hand grasped her wrist tightly and pressed her hand towards a tear in the veil. Her palm glowed, her arm buckling as energy tore its way out of her. Horrible screams from beyond… demons, grasping for purchase in reality.

How much of this was real?

_“What did you do?”_

A stranger with a smile that lingered just at the corners of his mouth. Pain coursing up her hand, the lingering smell of ozone. The rift had vanished — the mark’s glow subsiding in its absence.

 _“I did nothing, the credit is yours”_  

Ellana fought to make sense of the passage of time. Had this already happened, was it happening already? Disbelief, perhaps hers, or perhaps someone else’s. There was a disconnect between mind and body — a voice she recognized as her own rose above the others from somewhere outside of herself.

 _“I closed that thing? How?”_  

Had she met her end, only to be stuck here in the beyond? Perhaps this was the truth of what happened to The People when they perished, without Falon’Din to guide them to their rest. Shaking, Ellana fought to untangle her reality. On the outskirts of her dream demons pressed in, enticed by her struggle. 

_“It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”_

Ellana had forgotten something, something important. Who were they, these voices — were these her own memories, or someone else’s? There had been a dwarf. Perhaps another agent of this human woman, Cassandra, who would hang her for a crime she was sure she did not commit. Part of the Chantry, she had thought. 

_“Was that a serious question?”_

There was an elf, too. Ellana remembered the lilt of his laughter, but not his name. The dwarf was a captive also… he called himself Varric. Why were they here?

_“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”_

But who would name their child pride? She wanted to ask, but instead asked about… What was it that she was forgetting? Varric told her that Solas had watched over her as she slept, kept her safe from the anchor that threatened to consume her. Ellana had thanked him, only to make him laugh once more.

_“Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process.”_

The Breach.

The recollection flooded the space around her. Someone else’s magic pouring into her hand, filling her up. A booming voice, a fragment of a memory heaving out of a great hole in the fabric of the veil. Demons pushed into existence without mages to summon them. Ellana’s breaths came in great shuddering gulps as she pushed through and through, clawing at the fringes of consciousness until the darkness fell away around her. 

 

When she awoke she was still choking for air, looking up at the ceiling of an unfamiliar building.

 

* * *

 

The memories righted themselves, free from the confusion of the Fade — a rift, a pride demon. The smell of the scorched out temple still clung to her skin.  Ellana turned her head to look around the cabin when the door swung open to reveal a slight elven girl with auburn hair. Apparently startled, she dropped the box she was carrying on the floor.

 “I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

 Ellana righted herself, swaying as she supported herself on shaking arms.The girl began backing away as if Ellana were Fen’harel himself come to take her away.

 “Don’t worry about it, I only —”

 The elf dropped to her knees, head hung close to the ground. The word "slave" floated to the forefront of Ellana's mind; a sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. 

 “I beg your forgiveness... and your blessing. I am but a humble servant. You are back in Haven, my Lady”

 No flat-ear nor shemlen had ever mistaken her for a lady. There was something wrong, some grave misunderstanding or misbegotten prank. Ellana looked on in disbelief, With her nose almost pressed to the floor the girl continued, "They say you saved us! The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”  The mark on her hand pulsed as if it heard the girl speak of it.

 “So you’re saying… they’re happy with me?” Days ago… however many days ago now, Cassandra would have seen her hang for her perceived transgressions.  ‘What is going on?’

 “I’m only saying what I heard, I didn’t mean anything by it.” The girl stood up and began inching towards the door as Ellana approached; her buckling knees betrayed her fear. “I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened. She said _‘at once’_!”

 “Where is she?” Ellana asked gently.

 “In the chantry with the Lord Chancellor. _‘At once’_ she said!”

With that the girl bolted, her box of goods still lying on the floor where she dropped it. Ellana gaped after her, wondering if this was some trick of the fade, or if perhaps she had fallen asleep at the conclave and missed it entirely. Her gaze fell upon the mark, still casting its faint green glow from the center of her left palm, too real for her mind to have invented it. What had she gotten herself into?

 

 All that was left for her now was to go see Cassandra — perhaps she would have some answers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the first main story quest of the game. This story will necessarily begin to diverge from canon, and so expect the amount of in-game dialogue used to lessen. 
> 
> I was going to put off posting this chapter until next week, but have decided instead to post another chapter to show my appreciation for all of you lovely folks who left kudos/bookmarked this work! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	3. Haven

Solas dreamed of Haven that night.

With Ellana no longer skirting the fringes of death, Cassandra had dismissed him from his place by her side, insisting that he take his rest while he can. The girl had been unstable for many days following her first attempt to seal the breach; the Pride demon had pushed her to her limits.

With an incredible amount of his already meager power, he was able to equalize the mark; after such an ordeal, he welcomed the Fade with open arms.

First, he saw the Hero of Ferelden, coming upon Haven in a time of dire need. There was an ally and a sickness, only to be cured by administering the legendary ashes of a goddess that she herself did not believe in. The humans of Haven appeared before him next, devout in their worship of the Blighted world.  Their cries echoed all around him as with all of their might they fought to expel the Hero and her companions.

In one memory, the triumphant Hero did what she thinks is necessary, eradicating a cult to save an important piece of a very large puzzle. Another, the people of Haven see their kin cut down, murdered at the hands of an elf attacking the very heart of their faith. The dichotomy older than time itself— one man’s hero, villain to another.

Every story has two sides.

Next came the Chantry scholar, Genitivi, remarkable in his every observation. His injury deprived him of the relic he sought to study. The very roots of his religion, the sort of discovery educated men dream of securing, ironically bestowed upon a Dalish elf.

Later he would lead an expedition to this place, but would find no sign of Andraste’s ashes, nor of her follower’s spirits. The town will become a holy land, where pilgrims can travel to be close to the Maker — a chain of events that lead to the conclave and the Temple’s ultimate destruction.

Lost to the folly of Man.

Manipulating the Fade, Solas delved further until he found memories of Haven before the cult took root there. A beautiful town, rich with crops, a thriving trade center. The people there pay to have great heavy stones brought in to build the town’s first Chantry. There was beauty there, and the people were pleased with the progress of their great stone monument.

None thought twice of the Elven slaves in this memory — so many thin bodies crushed between the weight of stone or dead from exertion. Businessmen were paid handsomely for the labor of their elven slaves. The sacred ground was fed and watered with flesh and blood, a familiar history all throughout Thedas.

A powerful collective thought, its pained echoes reverberated through all memories, past and present, permeating each impression of reality. So many voices crying out, so many praying for the end of such degradation.

The turn was not one Solas wished to explore.

 

Pulling at the thread of his consciousness, Solas slipped into the waking world just as morning light crept over the horizon. In the early hours, with the feel of the dream still fresh in his mind, he took his time to reflect on his current circumstance.

 

* * *

 

There had been many months now of wandering, and while Solas was certainly no stranger to the open air prior to uthenera, it had been so long since he had enjoyed the luxury of shelter. Even the small cabin was a refreshing change, but he was well aware that were he not so necessary to Ellana’s continued good health, he’d more likely find himself in a tent with Varric than a cabin of his own.

The benefits of being in Cassandra’s “good-graces,” such as they were.

As he swung his feet over the side of his bed, he caught sight of an elven servant girl moving with a great deal of urgency. Thinking little of it, Solas pulled his tunic over his head and made for the door, just in time to see a shock of white hair flit past his window.

Though the glass he caught a glimpse of his charge as she disappeared over the hill towards the Chantry.  Were she not barefoot and still wearing the same nightclothes she was dressed in three days prior, it would be difficult to believe that this same girl had so recently been on the precipice of death.

There was still much to do.

Solas opened the door, staring out at the green glow of the breach where it scarred the horizon. How had his plans, so carefully laid, led to this? The power Ellana had acquired through her unwitting interception was more than any Dalish might ever hope to possess. Solas was curious to see where that power might take her, what she might do with it. Already she seemed to be proficient at taking on corrupted spirits and closing smaller rifts. 

What sort of hero might this “Herald of Andraste” turn out to be?

Shaking his head, Solas nudged the door to the cabin shut. Perhaps he would seek Varric’s company over breakfast. Their mutual distrust of the Seeker Cassandra had resulted in an unlikely camaraderie between the two. Companionship and conversation may help to clear his head, and the dwarf had seen many things of interest in his travels.

 

There was time yet for planning. For now, Solas would wait.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven is a fascinating place. I think there's a reason it's so crucial to the story of two great heroes!


	4. Hahren

During the early days, Ellana spent much of her time talking to people around Haven. While her clan had some close dealings with shemlen cities, she hadn’t really had a chance to interact with the people living there. The Dalish were viewed no more favorably in the Free Marches than they were in Ferelden or Orlais, after all. This was a rare opportunity to make some observations; as First to her clan, she could not afford to pass it up.

To her amusement, her being an elf was nothing if but a minor inconvenience to some, a point of contention for others; most just tried to ignore her origins entirely, as if wishing could cut away the points of her ears, or erase the graceful teal branches of Mythal’s tree etched across her skin. Perhaps the Inquisition only saw what it wanted to see, the way the Chantry chose to forget that Elves had rushed just as quickly to Andraste’s side as humans did.

What's more, if the newly appointed “Herald” had a gold piece for each time someone wished her the Maker’s blessing, she’d likely have enough money to buy the entirety of the Dales back for the Dalish, and to build houses for them too.

The attention was tiring, but at the very least the company was interesting enough.

Varric Tethras was a fascinating man, with many stories to tell— so long as the story had little to do with himself. She enjoyed talking to him about his companions back in Kirkwall. Ellana had caught sight of the city only once from afar, but even the Dalish knew about the viciousness of Kirkwall’s Templar army and steered clear. She never had a chance to visit, but it was obvious that for all its problems Varric thought fondly of the place.

For all his stories, however, the _Tale of the Champion_ soon became her favorite.

Ellana had never read the written story, but from the way Varric spoke of Marian Hawke it was obvious he loved her dearly.  She envied the Champion of Kirkwall for having such fierce friends to see her through all of the trials. The title was obviously a heavy burden to bear, and Ellana could relate in many ways.

Clan Lavellan felt further out of Ellana’s reach with every passing day.

The high walls of Haven felt too close; claustrophobic in ways she could not describe. The smell of the cabin wood, the pillowed bed, too unfamiliar, too foreign to feel like a home. She longed for the familiar sights and smells of Aravels and Halla, new places all of the time, the open plains and skies.

Lost in melancholy thought, she found that her aimless wandering had taken her to the doorstep of Solas’ cabin. For nearly a week she had managed to avoid the elf, who kept mostly to his own front step, and who rarely talked to anyone save Varric. She owed him a great debt, but while his austerity seemed to disguise a certain amount of playful wit, she found herself intimidated by the thought of actually having to talk to him.

For one thing, Ellana was sure that in all her years she had never seen an elf so tall or so broad. She had to look up to speak to him, and she was even quite tall for an elf. Tallest in her clan, for that matter.

Further, she had no idea how to repay him for saving her life.

Ellana paced outside the door for several minutes trying to decide how best to proceed, when an amused voice broke her thoughtful silence.

“May I help you?”

Ellana peaked around the corner of the cabin, only to find Solas seated there, a well-worn leather-bound journal in hand. Smiling, he took to his feet, brushing stray grass from his tunic, and pocketing the journal. There were smudges of graphite where his hands had met the cloth.

“Sorry, I was just— Sorry.” Ellana grinned sheepishly, embarrassed to have been caught pacing his front step. “The door was shut, and I wasn’t sure if I should disturb you.”

“You are the chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all! I am quite certain you can disturb whomever you like.”

The jest seemed to be good natured — he wasn’t laughing at her. Probably.

“Will I be riding in on a shining steed?” Ellana cocked her head, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“I would have suggested a Griffon, but sadly, they’re extinct.” While the ghost of a playful smile remained, his tone became serious, his eyes fixed on the scarred horizon. “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

That certainly caught her attention. With a lot of exuberance and entirely lacking vocal filter, the questions that Ellana had for him came pouring unbidden out of her mouth. But, if her queries bothered Solas, he politely made no mention of it, answering every question she came up with.

They talked until the sun had nearly gone from the sky, and as Ellana walked back to her own cabin she was reminded of warm nights by the fire, of her clan’s Hahren telling the old tales to groups of Dalish children huddled close, of being Da’len and joining hands with her fellow Dalish.

Solas was not a Dalish elf, but to call him a city elf would be a disservice. There was something about this wanderer that reminded Ellana of her kin, her homeland. Never had she met a non-Dalish who she might consider one of the People. His knowledge was vast, and while she was still wary of her current situation, she certainly respected him.

 

Ellana’s visits became a regularity, like a ritual; every day she found herself back at Solas’ cabin, where she asked him endless questions about his travels, and the things that he had seen in the Fade.

* * *

Keeper Deshanna had often chided her for her “inquisitive nature,” insisting that it showed a lack of discipline. Solas, however, seemed oddly pleased by Ellana’s curiosity, and so she made good use of his accommodating nature and patience.

“I’d like to know your opinions on Elven culture.”

The day was relatively warm and bright, and Ellana smiled, squinting at the reflection of the light off of the snow. This was a subject she had been meaning to breach with Solas, in hopes that he might share his thoughts on the People, or perhaps gain insight into how he came to know so much, and why he travelled alone.

“I thought you’d be more interested in sharing _your_ opinions on Elven culture. You are Dalish, are you not?”

Perhaps there was something to be said about listening to one’s Keeper.

“What’s your problem with the Dalish? Allergic to Halla?”

“They are children acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times. They make no effort to learn the truth of their history, content with half-truths and falsehoods passed down by those who stood no closer to Elvhenan than we do now.” Solas’ mouth never seemed to lose that slight quirk — even his insults came under the thinly veiled guise of a serene half-smile, as if he were pleased with his own cleverness. 

Ellana’s initial shock quickly gave way to anger, the tender hurt that resulted from being separated from her clan felt like an open wound in the face of such blunt disgust. Her pride then ran away with her mouth.

“What would you have us do then? How would you, with all your infinite wisdom, better the Dalish?” With a minute shake of her head as she gathered her thoughts, Ellana met Solas’ gaze with a hint of a challenge. “We do what we can with what we have, which is more than can be said for most. Our lives are difficult, but we answer to no one, and we are _trying_. Isn’t that enough?”

They stared at each other for several long moments, neither wavering. When she was just about to take her leave, Solas let out a small sigh. “ _Ir abelas_ , Da’len, for my rudeness. I cannot expect more of the Dalish than what they are able to achieve. If I can offer any understanding, you have but to ask.”

Ellana could not help but notice it was not quite an apology. Still, she let her discomfort pass away, reminding herself that perhaps she ought not to ask so many questions of him. The warmth of the title he bestowed upon her, Da’len, brought a warm feeling to her heart. Perhaps there was some kinship to be found here in Haven, after all.

 

“Ir abelas, _Hahren_ , I am sorry too. I let my pride make off with my sense. If the Dalish have done you a disservice, I would see it made right.” Her mouth eased into a small smile as she returned her new title accordingly.  “Now… what can you tell me about the Ancient Elves?”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that my Ellana recognizes Solas' non-apology, but chooses to let it go because she's determined to change his mind about the Dalish. Just an observation.


	5. Nas'falon

“So whose name is it, Chuckles?”

Weeks had passed since the day Ellana came upon Solas and Varric just outside of Haven, the glow of his mark taunting him from the inside of her left palm. The group had spent the last few days in the Hinterlands, the rough ground on which rifts were wreaking quite a lot of havoc. 

Their small party consisted of Cassandra, Varric, the Herald, and himself. Their goal was to further the Inquisition’s reach by setting up base camps in the Hinterlands, as well as to close the rifts in the vale and dispose of demons. His own desire was to study the rifts further, and to learn what he could about the effects of the mark. 

Night was setting in and he had just removed his tunic to wade into the river for a bath. Wandering apostates dressed in clothes only a step away from being rags had very little reason to fuss over appearances. For that reason, there were no mirrors in Solas’ cabin; he was caught off guard by Varric’s comment

“I’m sorry?”

“The name on your chest, whose is it?” Varric nudged him, companionable in a way that only Varric could be. “Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word. Let’s just call it a personal curiosity.”

If the shock showed on Solas’ face for even a moment, it went politely unmentioned.

“Dwarves don’t have the names.” There was an unspoken question there that he hoped would distract Varric from the matter of Solas’ own mark until he could see it for himself. It seemed impossible, after all this time…

“Nah, but I was born on the surface, and I know a lot of people!” He winked and continued, “Hawke wasn’t shy about hers, and Daisy’s was almost always uncovered… In Elven, just like yours. So… are you gonna tell me, or leave me in suspense?” 

Solas shook his head. “A secret I cannot share, as it is not solely mine to give. You shall have to try and seek the name for yourself, Durgen’len, if you wish it.” 

“I do love a good challenge. You’re a mystery, Chuckles, but I’ll figure you out eventually.”

When Varric had finished his own bath and was at last out of sight, Solas dropped to his knees, peering into the clear brook at his reflection. He could not help but laugh at his own misfortune, for as sure as the ground beneath his feet, there was indeed a name occupying the previously blank canvas of his chest.

Ellana Lavellan, scripted in Elven just above his heart.

All of his endless and intricate plans seemed to be tossed aside in favor of fate or failurealmost entirely beyond his own control. Walking back to camp, he could not help but run his finger over the cloth covering his chest, as if to will away the name there. 

The magic that created the pairing marks was older than Elvhenan, or indeed any living memory. The moment two soul mates touched skin to skin, the names appeared. So it had been for Andruil, who had grasped Ghilan’nain’s wrist flirtatiously at one of Mythal’s banquets, and found the name soon after having retired from the fête.

Solas tried to remember the hope in his heart when he was young, the stories he was told of love eternal, of Nas’falon, someone with whom he could share the whole of himself with. There was a time he would have celebrated such a moment; now, it only complicated his plans. 

A soulmate whose life was a fraction of his own, after so many years of living by himself.

The thoughts occupied him while the party huddled in around a small fire, encircled by a collection of sturdy tents. Ellana’s exuberant story telling had even Cassandra listening intently, and while the girl was distracted he took the opportunity to study her; the way that she held herself, the confidence in her movements, her speech.

How did such things come to pass?

While he considered this, Ellana had finished her story and was about to retire to the tent that she shared with Cassandra. Solas excused himself, heading out of camp to a nearby ruin he had scouted before the sun had set. As he made to disappear into the shadowy trees, a hand on his shoulder stopped him. 

“Where is it that you go at night?” 

Ellana was, for all of her faults, always unafraid to ask questions. The inquiring mind was an valuable thing indeed, and there was something to be said of her unending curiosity. 

Perhaps among her faults, Solas had also found that she was surprisingly tactile; the physical contact she so freely initiated often startled him. With a smile, he subtly stepped back from her slight fingers, which lingered on his sleeve.  

“I have been seeking out ruins scattered around the Hinterlands. The memories are strong in such places, and so I prefer to take my sleep there rather than in camp. Forgive me, Da’len, if I concerned you.” 

“That sounds incredible.”  In the onset of night, her eyes were wide with earnest and glowered like blue coals. “Could you show me how to dream that way?”

“Would that I could, but I’m afraid it is not a teachable skill,” Resting his hand on the brach of a tree, he continued, “It is an innate ability, and increasingly rare.” 

“Somniari.”

The word was spoken incorrectly, the syllables sticking to her tongue like tree sap, but said with a great deal of reverence. In his travels he had learned that her people now believed dream walking to be a lost talent; one reason of many that they had expelled him from their camps. 

No Dalish had been willing to entertain the idea that they might have been wrong.

“ _Somniari_ , yes. One with the ability to manipulate the Fade, to consciously walk dreams, and to seek out forgotten memories lost to the passage of time.” 

“Keeper Deshanna told me that there were no more somniari, that they had all died out.” Ellana shook her head in disbelief. “There were tales of a boy sent to another Dalish clan, one we had been only a little familiar with. Only whispers, but I wondered if they might hold some truth. The boy was half-blooded, of the city, but sent to the Dalish by a friend of the clan when demons began to attack his mind. I always hoped that such elves might still exist.”

Ellana looked at him with such hope in her eyes, and Solas could not help but wonder how the Dalish had raised up a being of such openness and passion. His gaze was drawn to the wet hair clinging to her neck, dripping water down her bare shoulders. Just inches below that, his name would be inscribed on her skin.

He could not afford to begin lingering on such thoughts.

“The talent is not exclusively an Elven one, but exploring the Fade has given me reason to believe that many in Elvhenan possessed such a skill. But that is a story for another time, Da’len. We have much to do come tomorrow.”

There was a moment where Solas thought Ellana might insist on staying, but after some consideration she seemed to think better of it. “Of course, Hahren, I am sorry to have kept you.”A small quirk tugged at the corner of her wide mouth. “Will you be safe, sleeping out in the open?”

“I _do_ set wards. And if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live.” The smile he gave her was genuine. “While Cassandra has been accommodating, she does not care for elven apostates. The slightest hint of wrong-doing may see me subject to the Seeker’s wrath. Under such close watch, the spiders will no doubt want keep their distance”

The smile disappeared from Ellana’s face as easily as it had come. “You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you.” 

“How would you stop them?”

“However I had to.”

For a moment Ellana Lavellan’s face seemed to bear wisdom of one far beyond her years. There was a seriousness there, fury and confidence that possessed her when making decisions with singular purpose. 

“Thank you.”

There were very few things in this world that impressed him; at each turn, the Herald seemed intent to scatter his every expectation to the winds. Resting her hand on his shoulder briefly, she bid him goodnight and left him to his own thoughts. As Solas lay his head down to rest in the ruin, he thumbed absently at the soul mark once more.

Solas struggled to make sense of the chaos in his thoughts. Lying on the ancient stone, he wished for a moment that Ellana to find her soulmate to be  _Fen'harel_  rather than  _Solas._ Better that she hate him as a Dalish than fall in love with a series of misdirections and untruths. Before wresting control of his dreams, he recalled Ghilin'nain, her spirit crushed beneath the weight of Andruil's "love." He recalled how cruel fate had been, to assign her a soul mate who could be so wretched.

 

As Solas drifted into the Fade he saw himself in Andruil's stead, and Ellana looking on at him with cold, dead eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nas'falon - Soulmate (Translation provided by Fenxshiral, whose Elven Lexicon is a treasure.)
> 
> This is the big question, then: Fen'harel or Solas? Either one has the potential to be disastrous.


End file.
